Boys! Kicking back in Nada. Great town full of old pubs and boarded-over Cadet snack bars. Ghosts of the Sixties. Hear the put-put of shining scooters in empty streets on Sunday mornings. Curtains ripple in open windows of one-room flats over launderettes full of broken people from the Estates. Got nothing whatsoever to say. Reading old yellow newspapers from the bottom of the wardrobe. Dreaming of shiny red cars with tops down and a beautiful girl in black sunglasses holding her long arms up so they float in the air like birds. I miss believing. Don't know if I ever believed. Be back Christmas 1954 with brylcreem in my hair. Call me Ishmael (don't call me poet).